On Interruptions and Indian Food
by Aegle
Summary: Concerning the pair, Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks. Post OotP.
1. Interruptions and Indian Food

**_On Interruptions and Indian Food_**

_**Author's Note**: _I love playing around with Remus and Tonk's interactions, and this is another example of what happens when my mind starts wandering. Set post-OotP. I don't think you'll need to read any of my other stuff to get this. I like them together, like this. It works for me, for some reason. Continued, possibly. Or not. We'll just see.

_**Disclaimer**_: All characters and places belong to Rowling, not me, as we are two different people. No copyright infringement is intended, and all of that rubbish.

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_**March 10, 1:15 p.m**._

He was listening to Dylan in his bedroom when she entered, catching the scent of cigarette smoke that was not entirely displeasing. She liked this penchant of his. It made him more real, somehow. She also liked to see that look on his face-eyes closed as he exhaled, lips forming an "o" as he leaned back in his worn desk chair. When he opened his eyes they were half-lidded and murky, and he smiled a sort of lazy grin. Good. He was in a good mood.

"We're going to Yorkshire."

He paused, elegant fingers holding out the smoking roll of paper only centimeters from his mouth. "We most certainly are not."

"Day after next. Weather's shit, so pack warm." Why she had added this, she didn't know. The man certainly didn't need mothering. A rough shag, true, but not advice from a twenty-something with hair that would make an epileptic go into fits.

"What happened to Kingsley? Thought he was covering that." He rose from the chair, snuffing out the cigarette in a blue glass ashtray. The stubs made a miniature forest of sorts, she thought idly. She moved to take his seat; drew her legs up into the chair and looked at him with a quirked eyebrow.

"Ministry work comes first, you know."

"Ah. So how does the 'we' factor?"

"I volunteered."

"Considerate of you."

"I'm a considerate person."

"Close the door."

She did, with a slight movement of her wand, and grinned as he leaned over to kiss her neck. "I could say you were a distraction and have you reassigned," he murmured against her jaw.

"You won't." Fingers in his hair, threading through it. "You won't, because you want me to go with you."

"That's rather presumptuous."

"Hmm, but true." The wall clock chimed, out of tune, but appropriate. Lunch breaks had limits. He released her with a touch of agitation, wearing the look of one whose routine has been interrupted countless times before.

"I'm on duty tonight," he said offhandedly. _So we won't be able to finish this_, the tone finished. She studied him for a moment.

"Tell me you want me to stay, Remus."

"Why should I do that?"

"Because I want to hear you say it."

"Go back to work, Nymphadora Tonks. Stop hanging about this place."

"All right then. Fine with me."

She rose from the chair, leaving him leaning against the edge of his desk. She was halfway down the hall when he opened the door and said, sighing somewhat, "No, wait. I don't want to have to catch up with you at the bottom of the bleeding stairs."

She turned, tapping a finger to her lips. "You used to be eloquent."

"Your hair used to be green."

"Ah, romance!" She put a hand to her head, fluttering her eyelashes at him, and he frowned.

"Please, stay."

The corners of her mouth turned up in a satisfied smile. "There now. That was lovely." He shook his head, but she remained in the hall, shrugging her shoulders a bit. "Wish I could, too. After all that. But I can't."

His mouth dropped open slightly, and her grin widened. "But I got you to say it, didn't I?"

"Right," he muttered, retreating back into his room.

"Yorkshire, Thursday," she called out, bounding down the stairs.

**March 11, 2:35 a.m.**

( found scribbled on a piece of parchment atop his bureau)

Come to my flat. I don't care what time it is.

T.

**March 11, 2:41 a.m.**

Takeaway Indian food and citrus-scented candles. His nose tingled as he moved past her small kitchen table-plain wood painted bright green. Her flat assaulted his senses somewhat. Oranges and reds, paper lanterns above him and half the contents of her wardrobe strewn about over countertops and chairs. A skimpy pink bra was draped over the arm of her sofa. That he'd seen before.

He'd long given up on pondering the ultimate question of _why _she held any interest in him, mainly because he didn't understand exactly what it was that made him want her. Stepping over t-shirts and panties only seemed to amplify the insanity of his present situation. It was not, at this point, love, as he didn't know if such an abstract term even existed. Companionship, perhaps. True enough, there were elements about her that he'd grown fond of. That satisfied little mewling noise she made when he'd done something particularly good in bed. Her hands, surprisingly dainty with fingernails coated in some outrageous color of nail polish. The nonchalance she constantly exuded, sometimes slipping into the bathtub with him, or draping her legs over his lap while they sat on the couch.

She slept deeply, and he'd already turned her bedroom doorknob before she woke, already a smile forming. Without light, the room looked very calm. He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe.

"Something you wanted?" he asked casually. "Must have been fairly important, for you to leave me a note."

"You are-" she reached over to turn on a lamp, "-supposed to go over these before we leave." Holding up a stack of papers, she waggled them around for him to see, and gave him a cheeky smile. "Top priority."

"Work always is, Nymphadora." He caught her eyes, enjoying the grimace the name produced, and moved to take the papers from her hand.

"Touché, Remus," she allowed, and stifled a yawn. "Now, you great sod, get into this bed."

"Would that I could, but you see, I've responsibilities to the Ord-" he let out a laugh as she grabbed his jumper, tugging him down onto soft sheets. And then, his mouth was on hers.

**March 11, 7:29 a.m.**

(beside her coffee pot on the back of her 'things to do' list, to which he has added the name "Remus Lupin" in small script between 'buy milk' and 'floo E. Vance')

You snore most beautifully, Nymphadora. Dinner at Number Twelve tonight? Dung would greatly miss you, should you decide not to come.

R.

**March 11, 10:57 a.m.**

(sent by obese Auror Department owl)

And what about you?

T.

**March 11, 11:24 a.m.**

(returned by same harassed-looking owl)

Oh, yes, I should imagine he would be disappointed if I were not there either.

R.

**March 11, 12:36 p.m.**

(this time, delivered by a healthy tawny)

You are a wanker. See you at six.

T.


	2. Parasol

**March 11, 2:58 p.m.**

He walked through Bermondsey Square today and saw a rose-colored parasol, decorated with elegant brushstrokes and leaning against a stack of worn-out hatboxes.

(_Tonks would like that.)_

It was quite simple, really, the thought that entered his head. It came and went as easily as reading the morning headlines or stepping out to see that the weather is fair, no need for an umbrella. Of all the oddities he'd passed, the clocks and silver spoons, strange statues of the grinning Buddha calling _om shanti om shanti_, plug-in paintings of the Last Supper that lit up Christ's head like a happy little Christmas light, he'd neither cared nor stopped to examine any of them. London was full of antique markets, each with an assortment of treasure that more often than not proved to be rubbish. The American couple he'd seen earlier would regret purchasing the "authentic" Persian rug a dealer was pushing on them, he was sure. And then there was the parasol.

That something so feminine would seem appropriate for a woman who traipsed about in combat boots and got pissed with him regularly on weekends was almost laughable. But there it was, swaying a bit when the wind picked up and taunting him.

He did not go near it, however, and instead continued walking, turning his thoughts to far less innocuous territory--the stack of papers on his desk at Number Twelve, the dog-eared Tolstoy on his dresser. Paper things, he found, were far easier to contemplate than people and parasols.

**March 11, 6:43 p.m.**

Tonks stood before her basin, an ancient green thing with a broken hot water knob, and quirked an eyebrow at her reflection. Putting effort into this was insanity.

"Fuck it," she muttered.

**March 11, 7:00 p.m.**

Remus considered, for the third time, beating Mundungus Fletcher over the head with a nearby wooden spoon, but controlled the urge again and took a long drink from his glass, letting the ice clink about. Dung, who had insisted that take-out was a shit idea when he himself was a culinary expert, was now puttering around the overly warm kitchen, looking amazingly out of place in the apron Molly Weasley regularly left at Number Twelve for dinnertime meetings. When he turned to check on the roast, Remus could see pink needlepoint lettering that read across the front, "_Devon Annual Witches' Cookoff 1983_". For the last half-hour, he'd listened to Dung's off-key humming--granted, he had switched from The Small Faces to the Kinks for a while, but had reverted back--and put out cigarette after cigarette into the glass ashtray in front of him, fiddling absently with a loose thread on one sleeve.

"Girlie's on time," Dung noted, casting a surprised glance at his wristwatch. Remus had to admit the man had excellent hearing; it took him several seconds longer before he heard the rustling of Tonks hanging up her coat in the entrance hall. Dung gave him a toothy grin.

"When did yeh tell 'er to be 'ere by?"

"Six."

"Ah, that'd explain it."

The door swung open, revealing a slightly rosy-cheeked Tonks in its wake. "Right, sorry, I-" she started, and then, upon seeing Dung, abruptly switched to a "never mind, then." She looked rather pretty, Remus thought, with her hair curled like that, but then she was looking at him with an expression of irritated realization.

"You said six."

"Indeed. And here you are."

"Remus, you've no faith in me. Wotcher, Dung." Dung gave a muffled "'Lo" from the stove as he hunched over to remove his roast.

"You know that you're supposed to cook food in that thing, and not your head, right?" Tonks asked him casually, and Remus turned to see that the wizard's head was, in fact, perilously close to the warm oven. Dung gave a low grunt and retrieved his "crowning glory" before straightening and saying, "Look at 'er, will ya?" He tottered over to Tonks, arms out to present the roast.

"What am I looking at, exactly," Tonks asked curiously, eyeing the meat with hesitancy. It held its stance, wobbling slightly, and she took a step back, apparently not ready to challenge the roast any further. Remus laughed aloud and Mundungus feigned insult, jerking back the platter and plonking it down on the table with a loud "_hmphf_." He bent over to inhale deeply, and came away with a frown.

"Fine---yeh get take-away then, but bring back a lot of samosas, eh?" he relented grudgingly to Remus. Tonks, however, had moved on to other things, eyes bright.

"Is that bourbon?"

"Ah, yeah--was savin' it but Remus got into it." Dung waggled his eyebrows in Remus's direction, saying only half discreetly, "S'a good thing you're 'ere, too. Edgy one, 'e is."

"Only when you're singing, Dung," Remus said, snuffing out a final cigarette. "Have a glass, Tonks?" He poured her one without waiting for a reply, holding it out to her absently and rising from his chair. When she met his hand to take it he lifted a finger to one bouncy brown curl beside her cheek, comfortably out of view from Dung, who was continuing to lament over the roast.

"You're looking quite disarming tonight."

She grinned, drawing away from him and saying in tones of mock surprise, "Oh, a compliment?"

"I am capable of them, yes."

"Want to pop out with me, grab some food? There's a pretty good Ind-"

"Get your coat."

**March 11, 7:16 p.m.**

He kissed her almost instantly after walking out of Grimmauld Place, beneath the dusty streetlamp, and the game they played, he knew, would continue for longer than he'd thought initially. He wasn't kissing to simply feel someone else's mouth against his own---he was kissing _her_. And again, he thought of parasols.


End file.
